


Self Preservation

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Romance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Time, Happy Ending, Hogwarts, Humor, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Outside the night had grown dark, and at some point Oliver had moved to perch on the edge of Marcus' bed, thigh pressed against his and tray settled between them. As if they had some sort of understanding. As if they were friends.Digital Art Included
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Comments: 35
Kudos: 175
Collections: anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been slowly chipping away at this fic for like four years now, I'm not sure how active the fandom is anymore but for those who read it, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Big thank you to my beta.

He knew, Marcus _knew_ there was a good reason he disliked Care of Magical Creatures. It was reckless and chaotic and rarely ended in any learning at all. Not that he had given a shit about learning up until now, but having to repeat a year tends to re-shift your priorities.

Kettleburn had been a fucking one-legged loon of a professor. But, in Marcus' eyes, he was nothing compared to Rubeus Hagrid. Because that right there was a fucking Manticore, licking its paw like it didn’t have a care in the goddamned world. Hagrid had said it was _"just a baby"_ and everyone’s eyes had practically melted out of their skulls and they cooed at it like it didn’t have a massive bloody scorpion stinger for a tail.

A butterfly flew past. The _baby_ snapped it out of the air with the ease and boredom only a creature bred for murder could possess.

Marcus let out a string of creative curses under his breath.

Half the students lingered by the tree line, understandably wary and, in Marcus’ eyes, sane. The other half gathered in awe, standing close enough to make Marcus’ hair stand on end. He deeply resented the fact that Oliver Wood was part of the latter half, wedged within a group of Gryffindors, all smiling like buffoons. Marcus was hovering, not quite as far back as the rest, but what he hoped was still a safe distance away from the beast. There was a bludger-sized rock by his foot. Marcus reasoned he could use it to bash the Manticore’s skull in if things went awry, as they always seemed to do.

Marcus focused the rest of his energy on resisting the deep-rooted urge to grab Wood by the collar and drag him back where it was safe: next to Marcus and his rock.

Well, _safer_.

For someone so invested in their team’s success and well-being, Oliver Wood had almost a comical lack of self-preservation, a fact that distressed Marcus to his bitter core. More than ever now that they had almost every class together and Marcus was a reluctant witness to the full scope and scale of Wood’s stupidity. He had gotten to experience first-hand the alarming array of Wood’s recklessness, and at this point, intrigue in a deadly creature shouldn’t be surprising.

Marcus might just as well die of an aneurysm before the “ _baby”_ even decided to gnaw his face off.

Marcus liked to pretend that his investment in Oliver Wood was entirely ascribed to Quidditch and avoiding the disaster which was the previous year. But even Marcus, who was well-versed in lying to himself, knew that he’d been gone on Oliver Wood since the kid head-butted him and left him with a bloody nose in third year. It was a persisting issue. Like a bad rash. Marcus was working on it.

Hagrid was still giving his doddering speech about misunderstandings and the destruction of natural habitats. All Marcus needed to know about that thing was that under page 54 of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ it stated that its name roughly translated to “ _man-eater.”_ Marcus snorted to himself and kicked at the edge of his rock. Fantastic his whole entire _ass_.

Beside him, Pucey had slunk forward out of the protective shade of the trees. He'd been drawling on in Marcus' ear about something entirely unrelated and looking almost as bored as the Manticore. Marcus wasn't paying him any attention. Hagrid had produced a sack of raw meat chunks from inside his coat, gesturing loosely as he reached the climax of his ramblings. The Manticore’s eyes pinned immediately to the bag, tracking it back and forth with its hypnotizing stare, pupils blown wide, and black, and soulless.

Marcus recognized that look from his sister’s cat, usually right before he got a leg full of claws. Oliver was standing between Hagrid and the demon, looking wholly unfazed and a little bit giddy. He must have never owned a cat.

Marcus inched closer, away from the security of his rock.

Some of the Gryffindors had forgotten about the minimum three-foot barrier they were supposed to give the creature, or maybe they were just dumbasses. Who knew, not Marcus. Usually, the older Weasley brother was there to be a nagging pillar of propriety, but this class had apparently been beneath him. So, it was left in Marcus' unworthy hands to hover anxiously while pretending not to give a shit. It was thankless work.

It all escalated rather quickly. First, Wood’s friends elbowed each other to get a better look. The circle tightened. Then the Manticore’s tail twitched and Marcus was way closer to this thing than he ever wanted to be, just solidifying the fact that one of these days Wood was gonna kill him.

The glimmer of blood lust clouded the Manticore's eyes as Hagrid made a final jerking motion with his hand. “Wonderful beasts, their hide can repel most charms-”

Marcus thought they should skin it and turn it into a cape.

Hagrid tossed a chunk of meat to Oliver for correctly answering a question. With sharp eyes, he caught it easily. Because of course he did. He was Oliver Wood, and all the while blissfully unaware of the impending disaster.

Following the arc of the bloody chunk to where Oliver stood, the Manticore curled its haunches, spine tightening, and Marcus scarcely had a chance to yell out _“move!”_ as he lunged only an instant before the Manticore did. Marcus tackled Oliver to the ground rather spectacularly.

It was instant chaos.

Students were shrieking as they scattered. Hagrid got a large hand curled around the back of the Manticore’s collar, jerking it back and away from the supple flesh of the children and chiding with a boom: “Bad Whiskers, _NO—_ ”

Marcus barely registered the mayhem. He had Oliver firmly pinned underneath him, flushed and looking up at him with dish saucer eyes.

“Are you alright?” Marcus tried, eyes raking over any areas of exposed skin. His heart was beating double time in his chest and he couldn’t conjure the presence of mind to act like he didn’t care that Oliver had nearly become dinner.

Oliver just stared at him. Marcus tried to bite out something sharp and insistent but his words slurred together in his mouth, his head slow and syrupy.

“Uh--” Oliver supplied, intelligently.

Marcus’ skin was burning. He thought at first it was because he was pressed against Wood from toe to chest. Wood’s eyes were bright, lips open and inviting, _wet--_ But maybe that was just the poison talking. Because when Marcus tried to roll off of him, a sharp pain shot through his shoulder and he collapsed to the side, groaning.

The last thing he remembered hearing was his name shouted close to his ear; then everything went white.

+

Large, warm eyes hovered over him. Like dark pools wide with concern. Marcus groaned. _Why him._

Marcus tried to shift but his whole body ached. It felt like he had fallen off his broom and fractured every bone in his body. White-hot stabs of pain shot through his shoulder as his sore muscles flexed. He gritted his teeth against the pain but allowed a strong hand to push him back down to the covers.

“Are you okay?” The voice was high and a bit shaky. _Panicked,_ Marcus realized.

His eyes were crusted in salt and blurry when he peeled them open. He focused on Wood’s nose, which was near close enough to poke him in the face, making Oliver look like a giant, worried bug.

“I’d be better if you’d back off,” Marcus grumbled. It didn’t have the effect he’d hoped for. His voice was scratchy, throat dry, and his words barely came out as more than a whisper.

“Don’t move, I’ll get Madame Pomfrey,” Oliver said and scrambled out of his chair, tripping over his own lankiness in haste.

“Where th’fuck would I go?” Marcus tried to bark after him but Oliver didn’t hear him, sprinting towards the Matron’s office door.

The next time Marcus opened his eyes, two faces were hovering over him, and Pomfrey started her methodical prodding. Wood was all twitchy, wringing his hands and chewing at his lip. Marcus wondered why he was even still there. Pomfrey spooned him some potion that tasted like butter and burnt toast. It burned all the way down.

“Water,” he croaked, and Oliver hastily filled a cup and tilted it so Marcus could take a sip.

Marcus internally praised Merlin that Pucey wasn’t here to witness this. He would never hear the end of it if he was.

Pomfrey and Wood were both watching him closely like they expected him to jump up and dance a jig or roll over and drop dead. He tried to sit up again, ignoring their protests. There was only one thing on his mind.

“When can I leave?”

Madam Pomfrey tutted, standing up straighter and ruffling like a great disgruntled bird. “Mr. Flint you were _very_ lucky-”

“You nearly died!” Oliver cut in, finishing Pomfrey’s scolding for her.

She obviously didn’t approve of his diagnosis, considering the way her eyes pinned him to the spot.

“Not quite, young man,” she chided, and Oliver had the decency to look sheepish.

Pomfrey whipped her glare back to Marcus, her hands firmly placed on her hips. He felt like he was about to be chewed out by his mother. “Your actions were very brave, but nonetheless reckless.”

Marcus didn’t feel brave. He felt sore and tired and like he wished the bed would swallow him whole. _“Reckless”_ was having that hell-beast in a school.

“Do not expect to be going anywhere for a few days.” With her bit said, Pomfrey seemed satisfied, dusting her hands of the situation and turning to Wood. “Now, I have other students to tend to and Mr. Flint needs his rest.”

“All right.” Despite her pointed words, Wood made a show of settling down in the chair beside the bed, crossing his arms over his chest. They held a silent stand-off over Marcus' bed, and Marcus had a distinct feeling that this wasn’t the first time the topic had come up.

“Well then.” Pomfrey sniffed, turning on her heel. Marcus could hear her mutter under her breath: _“By all means don’t listen to me I’m only the head healer,”_ her heels clacking passive-aggressively as she moved down the line of beds.

Wood was looking far too satisfied with himself. Usually, it was Marcus’ job to take him down a peg. But the potion was making things slow and fuzzy and he was finding it hard to come up with anything horrible to say at all.

“What are you doing here?” is what Marcus said instead, aiming for as much accusation in his tone as he could muster.

Oliver’s brows drew together. He was fidgeting again and of all things, he looked concerned. “I couldn’t just _leave_ you like this, could I?”

Marcus felt too tired to fight it. He tried again, chipping some of the edge off his words. “What happened?”

“You pushed me out of the way.” Oliver wouldn’t look at him, preferring to pick at the skin around his nails. “But it nicked your arm and you started convulsing.” He ended in a low voice, “It was horrible.”

Marcus swallowed around the guilt clear in Wood’s face. The last thing he needed was Wood indebted to him in some way, tying them together.

“I’m not dead.” It was a bit harsh, even to his ears, but he went on. “You can leave if you want, you don’t owe me anything.”

Oliver’s head snapped up, defiant as ever. There was a sadness around his eyes Marcus wished he hadn’t seen. “Don’t say that, maybe I _want_ to be here.”

And that--that was just not something Marcus could allow himself to hope for. “You’ve always had poor judgment,” he snipped. Oliver’s face split into a crooked grin and Marcus' stomach gave a hopeful little flip. He smothered it. “Standing between a Manticore and its food, really Wood?”

“It was only a baby,” Oliver drawled, his voice edging into a not unfamiliar grin.

Marcus shook his head. It still felt light and a little dizzy. The notion that that thing was anything less than a murderer was just as hysterical as it was untrue. Marcus snorted. “Yeah, and I’m a fucking fairy.”

Oliver’s brows shot up into his hairline. _Shit_.

“Princess,” he amended with a growl. “Fairy. Fucking. Princess.”

Oliver was trying to conceal his laughter with a hand pressed tightly over his mouth, but his eyes still gave him away. Oliver couldn’t lie for shit, his expressions were too sincere: big and warm and honest. It was disgusting.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Oliver said, lips still twisting, trying to suppress a smile and failing at that too.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Wood,” Marcus snapped, but he could tell it already had. Oliver was smiling at him wide and bright, eyes twinkling. Marcus really wished he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t help but reach out and push Oliver’s head away— _gently_ —and only because he was still in pain.

“Oliver, call me Oliver,” Wood insisted, laughing good-naturedly as he tried to dodge Marcus’ hand. It was half-hearted and Oliver was quick to lean back into his space.

“Right,” Marcus grunted, looking around desperately and wondering if it was possible to drown on dry land. Whatever this was, it was all very overwhelming. “Where’d Pomfrey go?”

Wood’s-- _Oliver’s_ brow creased in concern. “It’s almost dinner, did you want something?”

“No,” he said on instinct. Marcus wanted nothing. Ever. In the same breath, his stomach let out a growl at the prospect of food, the traitor.

“I’ll go get us something from the hall.” Oliver was already jumping out of his seat, perking up instantly at the prospect of having some sort of task to complete. He pulled at his shirt to straighten it out. “Anything in particular?”

“No,” Marcus repeated. It was the only thing he could think to say, staring up into the depths of the vaulted ceiling and cursing his weak will.

Oliver was not gone nearly long enough for Marcus to regain his footing, returning with a pair of levitated trays, wand still pocketed like it was nothing.

“I didn’t know what you liked so I got a bit of everything,” Oliver said, placing one tray down across Marcus’ lap and the other on the bedside table.

He wasn’t joking; the plates were piled high with food. Marcus eyed them hopefully. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until now, the empty feeling burning a hole through his stomach.

They ate in companionable silence, Oliver adding comments here and there. Marcus was happy just to listen to him ramble, his full stomach making him feel tired and sated. Everything had gone tingly and soft. He could probably fall asleep like this: to the sound of Oliver’s voice, the melody of his accent as he told Marcus about the looks on everyone’s faces after Marcus tackled him--saved him--with a barely disguised mirth.

“I never properly thanked you, for doing what you did.”

Marcus blinked, refocusing on Oliver’s face. He had zoned out watching the warm glow of the candles spread over the dip of Oliver’s collarbone, just visible through the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. Outside the night had grown dark, and at some point Oliver had moved to perch on the edge of Marcus' bed, thigh pressed against his and tray settled between them. As if they had some sort of understanding. As if they were _friends_.

Heat radiated off Oliver like he was the one with the fever. It was both overwhelming and Marcus hated to admit: comforting.

“So, thank you,” Oliver finished, and Marcus blinked again, slowly, barely keeping track of the conversation.

Oliver was pulling at the loose threads at the edge of the blanket. Marcus watched, tongue heavy and dry in his mouth. He tried swallowing around the thickness of it. “No problem.”

It was only two measly words but Oliver was practically radiating at him. Part of Marcus wished he would just leave. There was a glass feeling--small and secret--curled tight in his chest, warm and soothing and so good it physically hurt. Maybe that’s why Marcus used to punch Oliver in the face: to stop him from looking at him like that, with eyes like wet fire.

Marcus wasn’t used to being this close to Wood without some sort of conflict. He had always thought Oliver’s eyes were clear brown. But here in the warm light of the infirmary, Marcus could have sworn he saw flecks of green.

Oliver’s eyes traced over Marcus. The smile was slowly slipping from Oliver’s face as he searched for something. Marcus let him: he didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve the same way Wood did. He doubted Oliver would find anything there worth looking at.

Pomfrey cleared her throat, cutting through the thick silence that had settled over them and making Oliver jump where he sat. “It’s time to go.” Her voice was firm. Oliver opened his mouth to protest but she snapped before he could start. “It’s past curfew, Mr. Wood. I must insist you at least sleep in your own bed.”

Oliver gave her a sheepish look and stood, still hovering at the bedside, waiting. Marcus didn’t know what for. He was so exhausted.

Finally, Oliver smiled and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He rested his hand briefly on Marcus’ shin through the covers, squeezing and flooding his body with warmth. Pomfrey was looking between them with a mixture of impatience and curiosity. Marcus just continued to sweat through his shirt.

Eventually, she batted Oliver out, saying if anyone stopped him in the halls they could take it up with her. When the heavy wooden doors closed between them, Marcus felt like he could finally breathe again. Oliver on one side, him on the other. It was soothing in its familiarity. They were still Flint and Wood. Oliver and Marcus. Nothing important had changed.

Pomfrey hustled back over, straightening out her apron and fussing over his bedsheets. A knowing eye framed by one arched silver brow pinned him to the spot as she tucked the sheets tight around him.

“You know that boy sat by your side all day? He refused to be budged!” She huffed, both in admiration and annoyance at Oliver’s stubborn persistence. “Even when those twins came to get him.”

Marcus paled at the notion of Fred and George anywhere near his person while unconscious. He should have been offered a cavity search on principle.

“He wouldn’t go with them! Teenagers these days.” She sniffed. “Such strange courting behaviours. Is confessing one’s feelings really that difficult for someone who dodges bludgers for fun?” She looked down at him like she actually expected Marcus to be able to answer the question.

Marcus choked on his tongue trying to respond three ways at once. She gave him a sharp slap to the chest.

Marcus coughed. “He’s not _courting_ me,” he hissed out. Just the thought of it sent his head spinning.

“Oh, my mistake, then I should take your incessant blushing as what, friendly admiration?”

“We’re not even friends,” he tried, weakly. Oliver would have a field day if he ever heard any of this.

“I’m not sure about you, Mr. Flint, but I’d hesitate to call someone who stayed by my bedside anything less,” she said, giving him one last penetrating look and smothering Marcus’ remaining hope of getting a good night’s sleep. “Now sleep tight.”

He didn’t sleep a wink. Marcus had never thought in a million years Wood would look at him quite like that. He’d had glimmers, hints of interest over the years, but he could always chalk that up to blind, foolish hope. Oliver and he were obviously connected in rivalry and passion for the game, but that didn’t mean Marcus was allowed to _want_.

+

Adrian came to visit him first thing in the morning. He was the last person Marcus wanted to see after a sleepless night. Adrian already had a shit-eating grin on his face, full of predatory glee when he pulled a chair up to Marcus’ bedside. And when Marcus asked why he hadn’t visited yesterday, Adrian said he had heard Wood had taken _very_ good care of him. All night long. Marcus told him to eat shit anyways.

They ate breakfast together and Marcus begrudgingly had to admit it was not the worst. Adrian described in vivid detail to him how Wood acted after he collapsed, refusing to leave his side and even aiding in levitating him to Pomfrey himself. All the while Marcus worked hard to look uninterested. He couldn’t imagine Wood _panicking—_ least of all over _him._

He was allowed out of bed around lunch to stretch his legs. Marcus’ joints felt heavy as if they were filled with cement and his nerves janky. Still, he felt better enough compared to yesterday that his apprehension surrounding Quidditch eased, if only a bit. Slytherin would be playing in the first game of the season and Marcus hadn’t allotted time for being jumped by a murder-cat into his training regimen. He was stiff, but he could walk. He would survive.

Wood stuck his head in while Marcus was eating dinner, impeding his plans to pretend to be asleep the next time Oliver turned up. Marcus’ heart skipped a painful rhythm against his ribs. Oliver looked happy to see him. It wasn’t fucking fair.

Oliver had brought copies of his notes for Marcus to read and folded them neatly into the pile of books by his bedside. “I can help with any homework you don’t understand. I always find Transfiguration tricky myself.”

Marcus had a feeling they had very different definitions of the word _tricky_.

“Thanks, Wood,” he grumbled, because besides Quidditch Marcus was aware this was going to set him behind in his classes as well, and repeating another year was just not an option.

“I told you to call me Oliver,” he corrected with a huff, giving Marcus a fond smile.

Marcus had forgotten when Wood’s face stopped instantly scowling at Marcus’ presence and eased into this: soft eyes and dimples pressed into cheeks. There was a light dusting of stubble over the sharp curve of his jaw, turning the handsomeness of his face slightly roguish. On anyone else, Marcus would assume it was left on purpose. But knowing Oliver, likely he didn’t even realize it was there. He never seemed to give much thought to how he looked or dressed--a mess of track pants, loose t-shirts, and jeans mended around the knees--and paid no attention to the appreciative gazes that trailed after him. Marcus’ own three o’clock shadow always made him look like an adult trying to play a high-schooler. Which he almost was, he thought bitterly.

“Force of habit,” he mumbled.

Oliver talked about this and that. Mostly Quidditch, which Marcus was more than okay with. The majority of Marcus’ team wouldn’t put up with his ranting for more than ten minutes at a time. It was nice to talk to someone arguably more obsessive than even he was. Oliver talked with his hands, he was passionate about Puddlemere of all teams, and Marcus had to reluctantly admit that they were all right. Not better than the Magpies, though; that he insisted.

Marcus’ attention drifted in and out, focusing on Oliver’s hands: his dry skin and long fingers. There were notes scribbled over the back of one in that blue Muggle pen attached to the neck of his jumper. Tilting his head, Marcus eyed them until he realized the scribbles were miniature plays, and his stomach did somersaults.

In an act he could only explain as near insanity, Marcus reached out and snatched the pen from Oliver’s collar. Oliver stilled, pausing mid-sentence, but didn’t protest when Marcus grabbed his hand, crossing out lines and adding a few arrows of his own.

“There, where you had Spinnet would never have worked.” It sounded rather dumb out loud, the words suspending between them as Marcus realized he was still holding Wood’s hand. He dropped it like it had burnt him.

Oliver twisted his wrist, assessing the adjustments, and smiled. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Marcus grumbled, shifting and refusing to look Oliver in the eye. “I should go to bed.”

“Right, sorry.” Wood looked sheepish, scratching a hand back through his hair, letting his bangs flop back down over his forehead.

Because the world was keen on humiliating him in every way possible, Pomfrey got Oliver to help him walk one last lap before bed. Oliver’s arm was strong and secure when he bent to wrap it around Marcus’ waist, helping hoist him out of the bed and catching his weight when Marcus’ knees almost gave out beneath him.

Marcus had been fine all afternoon, but now he was tired and stiff from sitting for hours. His walk was shaky at first, but Oliver was keen beside him, pressed close and steadying. Marcus could feel Oliver’s exhales brush against the hollow of his neck and narrowed his focus to gaining his balance and shrugging Oliver off.

Oliver trailed him, hesitant and hovering. He kept a wide palm pressed to the base of Marcus’ spine, just in case. Marcus felt slow and slightly off-kilter, but he only had to reach out and grab Wood’s shoulder once--and that was only because he was _tired. Very, very tired_. It was a relief when they finally made it back to his bed, a respectable distance separating them once again.

Marcus stretched, arching and twisting his back till it gave a satisfying pop and he groaned, sliding back under the covers. When he looked up, Oliver seemed very interested at the stone floor below his feet, the back of his neck painted red.

Marcus pretended he hadn’t seen it, rearranging the blankets over his lap instead.

“See you tomorrow?” Oliver asked when he finally looked back up, voice hopeful.

“Sure,” Marcus replied, as if for a moment he wasn’t lying.

+

Marcus had no intention of seeing Oliver. Pomfrey let him out begrudgingly, after much whinging on his part. He thought she partly let him go just to avoid the ruckus. At lunch, Crabbe and Goyle had shown up with Higgs trailing on their heels and looking thoroughly unimpressed. It went about as well as you could imagine: Goyle sat on his foot, Crabbe dropped the cupcake he brought Marcus on the beginnings of his History of Magic essay, and Higgs complained loudly and ad nauseam about Pucey getting to run practice in Marcus’ absence. That was all before Marcus had started yelling at them.

He really was feeling better. Pomfrey must have given him the good shit, because he may have been stiff and slow but he wasn’t in pain. She told him to take it easy and gave him a vial of sleeping draught to take before bed.

Marcus also had no intention of taking it easy. That was what the infirmary was for. All the shit he still had to do was piling up in his head. Begrudgingly, he finished his essay for Binns, because the stress of missing three days of class wouldn’t allow him to function until he’d achieved _something_ and read through some of the Charms notes Oliver had given him to quell his nerves.

When the sun began to set, the sky a dusky pink and yellow, Marcus skipped dinner without even a second thought. Grabbing his broom, he made a beeline for the pitch. He’d only missed one team practice, but still, it weighed on him. They’d been so close to winning last year before someone started ritualistically petrifying students and rendering all he had sacrificed for the Quidditch season nil.

Mounting his broom, Marcus was anxious to get in the air as soon as possible. He was used to being out here every day and hoped it would settle some of the waves of disquiet crashing against his ribs. Marcus took off into the night sky, the cool November air whipping his hair around his face. He leaned into it and lapped the field with increasing speed. Marcus didn’t mind the cold. He enjoyed the bite of it: the tingle of pins and needles against his skin. It made him feel alive, his heart fluttering in his chest. He could still fly. Everything would always be fine as long as he could still fly. The air was his alone to use as he wished and he soared, weaving through the goalposts and around the stands until his hands were ghostly pale shapes on the broom and his joints groaned in protest. He was going to be wicked sore tomorrow, but it was worth it. It was always worth it.

Now, the clouds were just grey streaks against the black night and when he landed there was a shadowy figure seated at one of the benches, waiting for him. It stood, meeting him halfway. Oliver Wood was in front of him, composed entirely out of shades of blue in the moonlight. His arms were crossed tight over his chest. He was shivering.

It wasn’t that cold.

“I went to the infirmary but you were gone.” His eyes were endless black pools, drawing Marcus in. “Figured I might find you here.” He nodded towards the sky with the jut of his chin. “You looked good.”

“I’m slow,” Marcus replied, balancing his broom across his shoulder, wincing at the twinge in his back. He shifted, trying to play it off.

Oliver caught it anyway, biting at his lower lip, then his upper.

“Spit it out, Wood,” Marcus snapped, watching Oliver’s lip pale against his teeth then flood with blood when he let it go.

“You hate me.” It wasn’t what Marcus had expected, but he kept quiet as Oliver continued. “I don’t understand, why push me out of the way?” His face didn’t match the bluntness of his words, eyes expectant and full. _Terrible._

“I don’t hate you,” Marcus said, because it was the truth and because he could barely make out Oliver in the weak evening light. It still felt like a secret.

“You don’t?” Oliver’s breath caught in the dark.

“Of course not.” It was all too simple.

“ _Of course not._ ” Oliver huffed out a frustrated breath, his hands tightening where they gripped his upper arms. “Marcus, we’ve been at each other’s throats for years. _Why?_ ”

The last bit was as demanding as it was pleading and it caught Marcus off guard. Oliver didn’t bend for anything, anyone. The grip Oliver had on his arms was starting to look more and more like he was hugging himself and Marcus couldn’t help but wonder back at him: _why?_

“Friendly competition?” he tried. Marcus knew it was bullshit and Oliver didn’t look impressed, so he elaborated. “Your reserve keeper is trash, if you weren’t playing it wouldn’t even be a challenge. That sucks worse than losing.” It was a weak excuse, but it was something. It was what he could give.

“None of that matters if you can’t even play,” Oliver whispered harshly.

Marcus felt more than saw Oliver move closer. A puff of warm breath brushed against his neck. Oliver’s brow was furled in concern.

Marcus wondered if he kissed him, if the night would keep that a secret too.

“I have thick skin.” It was the truth, if not slightly off-center from the point.

“But not death-defying.” Oliver’s voice was bitter and the corners of his smile were hooked in a way that told just how aware he was of Marcus’ trialed mortality.

“It was only a baby,” he cooed, parroting Oliver’s earlier words back to him, a teasing lilt seeping into his voice.

Oliver laughed quietly. “Yeah, you’re right. Silly me.” He scuffed the toe of his shoe into the grass. “Pomfrey say if you’re fit to play?”

“I’d like to see her try and stop me.”

“Aye.” Oliver took another hesitant step forward and Marcus had to resist taking one back. The air between them was taut, and Marcus could tell Oliver had more he wanted to say, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet like he was building courage.

Before he could, Marcus cut in. “We should go inside, it’s late.”

Oliver blinked at him, frowning when Marcus stepped deftly around him, hastily making for the glow of the castle in the distance.

“Right,” he heard Oliver mutter before jogging to catch up with him. He stayed half a pace behind and Marcus could feel the weight of Oliver’s eyes on the back of his neck all the way to the castle, only breaking when they parted ways to their respective dormitories. Marcus didn’t look back, but he sighed in relief when he was finally out of sight, enveloped by the cool safety of the dungeons. He told himself it was better off this way.

Even in his own head, it was starting to sound stupid.

+

Oliver was maddeningly hard to avoid. He had to be the most persistent git in the entire school. If not the entire world. It was all made worse by the fact that Marcus was finding it harder and harder to pretend he wasn’t secretly getting a thrill every time Oliver ran over to him, crashing into his side and smiling wickedly when Marcus tried to hide his misstep.

Oliver was adamant about following through on his promise to help Marcus study and all but manhandled him into the library. Which meant Marcus had to spend the first twenty minutes of their study session with his bag in his lap thinking about Bletchley’s dirty socks and ignoring the fact he just let Oliver Wood drag him around, and how he’d probably let him do it again.

Oliver said he just had to relax and concentrate, that he only needed the right motivation. Marcus’ brain had drawn a blank and his palms had sweated for a torturously long minute before Oliver supplied _“flying”_ with a knowing smirk and Marcus could breathe again. He didn’t miss the way Oliver shifted his chair closer so that their elbows brushed and the way he eyed Marcus in short fleeting bursts the rest of the afternoon.

Marcus was only able to relax once they were out of the library and cutting across the courtyard to the pitch. He didn’t think his cardiovascular system could survive another studying session with Oliver, but the quiet companionship was nice. Maybe they could make a habit out of taking their extra practice together; the physical distance flying ensured might be less detrimental to his nerves.

_Not likely._

Marcus allowed himself a moment to imagine them walking side by side as something more. To be half a step closer, to wind their fingers together, to be allowed to look-- _selfishly_. But like all good things in his life, the sensation was fleeting.

“IT’S OUR SAVIOUR!” George all but howled like a dying cat out of bloody _nowhere_ , fainting into Fred’s awaiting arms in a dramatic re-enactment and making Marcus jump halfway out of his skin.

To his horror, Oliver yelled back, “You’re just jealous!” and grinned from ear to ear, pleased with himself, as they passed a group of giggling fourth years.

Word of Marcus’ uncharacteristic heroism had spread through the school like wildfire when Marcus was still passed out in an infirmary bed, no doubt instigated by the two-faced bastards he called his friends and teammates. Even the first years were watching him more in awe than in terror and Marcus had to run damage control, glaring promises of a slow death at anyone who even considered entering his two-meter personal radius at any given time.

When Montague asked if he could have Marcus’ autograph he shoved his face into a bowl of soup with unrestrained glee.

+

Just how Marcus knew he hated Care of Magical Creatures, he knew he hated the Malfoy whelp. Skinny git, simpering in Marcus’ face with his goons flanking either side, his arm in a cast and self-satisfaction barely concealed behind his curled upper lip. For a thirteen-year-old, he looked like a caricature of a sleazy villain, but Marcus wasn’t fooled: he knew fear when he saw it. Malfoy strutted around proffering the sling like a trophy, and Marcus didn’t even want to know, but he had to ask anyway.

“Hippogriff, of course it was--” Marcus worked at the knot between his eyes, cursing Hagrid silently. “Get out of my sight,” he growled, and Malfoy may have been a precocious twat but at least he knew when to get scarce.

 _Postpone the game_ he said. _Father insists_ he said. Marcus reveled in imagining popping Malfoy’s platinum head off like one of his sister’s dolls. It would be all too easy, he was all sharply pointed edges and brittle. But Marcus had nodded and said _okay_ anyway. Refusing wasn’t part of the deal. The deal was falling to the side. The deal was his out.

He was expecting the repercussion when it came. He had been bracing for it.

Well, hiding was a more accurate description. He knew he was a coward, he did.

If he had been brave he would have sought Oliver out, told him to his face. Like a captain, like an adult. Like a _friend_. But right now Marcus was none of those things. If he was brave he would have told Malfoy to go fuck himself. Hell, Oliver would probably tell Lucius Malfoy to his pinched face over the prospect of selling out. Instead, Marcus hid in the back of the library where nobody would bother looking for him.

It was all doomed to begin with. Marcus had been approved to rejoin classes and there were only so many times he could slip him before Oliver caught on and finally cornered Marcus between Herbology and Potions.

_“Flint!”_

Marcus froze mid-stride, spine going stiff. _No longer on a first name basis then_.

Oliver’s eyes weren’t warm. They were cold and hurt, making Marcus’ chest clench and his lungs burn. Clutching his battered _Quidditch Through the Ages_ like a lifeline, like a shield, he faced Oliver down.

Oliver couldn’t possibly break anything with the word _Quidditch_ on it. It would vie too dangerously with his personal philosophy.

Oliver stalked him down across the grass. Marcus was pinned to the spot; he didn’t even consider walking away. Part of him knew he deserved whatever was about to be dished out.

He still bristled when Oliver got up in his face, looking all pinchy and butt-hurt. That loose feral anger running through him made him look more like a fox and less like a puppy. Honestly, Marcus liked this version of Oliver better.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” His hands were working at his sides and Marcus knew from experience Oliver wanted to grab him and _shake_.

“Don’t know what you mean,” Marcus said with a slow nonchalance. Nothing worked Oliver up better than dismissal--other than maybe outright ignoring him--and Marcus didn’t really have the willpower for that right now. So, he settled somewhere between bored and irritated, like Oliver was a fly that wouldn’t piss off.

It had the intended effect; Oliver’s shoulders were up about his ears and blotchy red was stained high on his cheekbones. Too easy, Marcus thought.

“Don’t play dumb, the fucking match, we’ve been training for _weeks_.”

“Not my problem,” Marcus drawled, giving a half shrug as if he hadn’t really thought about it. “M’sure you’ll do fine, it’s only Hufflepuff.”

Oliver’s eyes were desperately searching his face, but Marcus kept the stone wall up.

“They have Diggory now, _you_ _know that_ ,” Oliver hissed at him.

And Marcus did know that, because they had discussed it to an extent, in the low light of the infirmary, jotting down plays on note margins. His stomach gave a lurch like he had left his insides back with Snape.

“Marcus, you _know_ this isn’t fair.” Oliver’s voice had a pleading edge to it and Marcus doubted he intended it to. Emotions and honesty were seeping through the cracks and getting the better of him again. It hurt to look at him, open and raw like a wound and making it all too easy for Marcus to press his thumb where it hurt when he opened his mouth with a sneer.

“Should be easy with the golden boy on your team.” He leaned into Oliver’s face, so there was no chance his words could be misconstrued. “Oh right, he’s not really up to snuff right now, _is he?_ ”

Oliver paled. It was a low blow, Marcus knew. Oliver was looking at him like he’d never seen him before, and what did he expect, really? He was Marcus Flint, a cold fucking bastard.

When he dared to grin, Oliver’s face went livid. “Maybe you are just as fucking stupid as you look,” he spat.

 _Quidditch Through the Ages_ got tossed to the ground, forgotten, when Marcus lunged at him.

Oliver’s eyes glinted like polished tigers eye, unflinching and ready for it. He latched onto Marcus when he rammed into him and they tumbled together into the grass. If Oliver wanted a fight, Marcus would give him a fucking fight. They hadn’t brawled like this since his fifth year and Marcus relished in it. It probably shouldn’t feel this good to finally get his hands back on Oliver.

Oliver fought like a fucking wild thing. He was lithe and tricky, hard to grab and even harder to detach his wiry arms when they latched around Marcus. He was strong and they were almost even in size now. Marcus remembered when Wood was just a scrawny third year and used to do anything to even the playing field: nails, fingers knotted in hair; Marcus would swear to Merlin he had found a bite mark once after a particularly nasty row. He maintained Oliver would have made a great Slytherin.

Marcus still had weight on him, rolling with momentum and pinning Oliver to the ground. Oliver looked up at him, eyes blazing, and it was almost blinding to look at him directly like this. Marcus’ stomach did somersaults when Oliver squirmed underneath him, wracked with waves of guilt and want, washed out almost immediately by shame, so much so that he could probably drown in it.

He didn’t have to worry long because Oliver grabbed a fistful of dirty grass and shoved it into Marcus’ face. He laughed sharply as Marcus sputtered, digging one of his pointy elbows into Marcus’ chest. Marcus growled, flattening himself down against the firm body beneath him.

“How old are you?” he rasped, trying to catch his breath.

Chest heaving and still laughing, Oliver looked nearly mental. Up close, there was a smattering of freckles highlighted by the flush on his cheekbones, twigs stuck in his hair, and grass staining his shirt.

“Takes one to know one,” Oliver bit back, short of breath.

“That doesn’t even make _sense_ ,” Marcus snapped.

Oliver pushed up onto his elbows, wedging himself further into Marcus’ space. “Why would you go through all that, saving my ass, if you were just going to throw the match anyway? _That_ doesn’t make sense!” Dark eyes bore into him, and for a second Marcus panicked like Oliver could see through him, right into his head.

 _“Leave it,”_ he snarled, leaning back into Oliver’s face. This whole situation was bullshit. Utter fucking bullshit, and he wouldn’t be the one to stand down first.

Oliver blinked, opening his mouth and about to protest when Marcus cut him off.

“ _You don’t understand_ —” he gritted out, his voice breaking against his will, and Oliver’s eyebrows shot up under his bangs. The words came out more desperate than he had intended and Marcus swore under his breath. Oliver was gaping up at him now, eyes searching and wide, trying to meet Marcus’ own.

Suddenly, hitting him like the strongest blow yet, Marcus was aware of just how close they were pressed together. He could see the blood staining Oliver’s bottom lip, full and round. Marcus cursed himself for wanting to press back down over Oliver and lick into that wet mouth. Marcus had let this thing grow way out of hand. He had to survive, stay under the radar just long enough to get the fuck out of here and into the black and white robes of the Magpies. If Lucius Malfoy said jump, Draco said how high. If Draco said his arm was broken, Marcus didn’t fuck with it. It was not worth getting entangled in one of their games, not when he could finally see the glimmering of light at the end of the tunnel so clearly. He didn’t like being bought out, and he didn’t like losing control of his team. But Marcus was far too familiar with the concept of necessary sacrifice.

_“Marcus--”_

“Have you two gone mad?” A shrill voice broke through their standoff. McGonagall was pushing through the ring of students gathered around them. Marcus hadn’t even noticed.

“Mr. Flint, Mr. Wood, I expect the two of you to set a better example as captains and seventh years.”

Marcus flushed. This was his second go at seventh year. Not something he was exactly bragging about.

“Detention, detention both of you.” Her voice was firm with that wavering edge of fury it got when she was wholly disappointed.

“But we’ve got a game Saturday!” Oliver argued, flustered at the prospect of missing practice.

“Monday then.” She clicked her tongue. “7 o’clock.”

“Fine,” Marcus spat, pushing up and away from a still confused looking Oliver, snatching his bag off the ground and stomping towards the castle, forgoing class and ignoring the calls of _Mr. Flint_ after his back. Marcus didn’t have a game to worry about now. She could give him a second detention for all he cared.

He didn’t even bother with his nose until it started dripping blood onto his shirt, little red blotches seeping into the fabric. _Fuck_.

He banged into the dormitory, relieved to find it empty. Leaning into Higgs’ mirror, he pushed his long bangs out of his face to examine the break. Oliver had gotten him good. Marcus would expect no less. He set the fracture quickly and without finesse. His face was a lost cause at this point anyway, especially his nose. There was a thin silvery line drawn across it where he’d broken it repeatedly; this had to have been the seventh time.

“Lucky me,” Marcus huffed to no one in particular, flinging himself down onto his bed. Now three of the times could be attributed to Wood and his wily elbows.

Marcus knew he looked like shit but Adrian told him so anyways when he entered their dorm. There was blood still crusted on his face and he’d _“forgotten”_ to shave properly since he got out of the infirmary.

Groaning from his spot on the bed, Marcus ignored Adrian’s nitpicking, intent on watching the shadows drag across the room and pretending he wasn’t wallowing.

Thanks to Wood, Marcus had days before having to serve detention, but still, he felt like he was waiting for his own funeral. At this point, he’d rather face that than Oliver.

“You’d think he’d be more grateful,” Adrian started slowly, not looking up from the work on his desk, and Marcus was filled with the sort of dread only Adrian and his probing could elicit. “You saving his life and all.”

Marcus groaned long-sufferingly. “Stuff it, Pucey.” He’d thought they were finally finished discussing this, but apparently, Adrian wouldn't let a dead horse rest. “I told you, it doesn’t mean--”

 _“Doesn’t mean--”_ Adrian mocked in a slow, deep voice. “Merlin’s sake Flint, just _do something_. He obviously cares.”

“Can’t,” Marcus mumbled from under his arm.

“Yes, you can. You’re just scared,” he considered. “And thick-skulled.”

“Have I ever told you how much I hate you?” Marcus accused.

“Every day. Now stop moping and grow a backbone.” Adrian paused to look up at him for the first time during their conversation. “Oh, and wash the fucking blood off your face mate, it’s disgusting.”

Marcus forgot to wash the blood off.

He got distracted tearing his room apart looking for his copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ and realized with a sinking feeling that he’d forgotten the book where he’d flung it before lunging at Wood.

Streaking through the school to the greenhouse at full speed, Marcus terrified some Hufflepuff first years who shrieked when he tore around the corner looking like a bloody madman. He thought he heard _“Serious Black”_ come out of one of their whimpering mouths, but he wasn’t paying attention. His stomach was plummeting fast and sharp like a stone in water as he searched the grassy nook where he’d thrown it, but it was nowhere to be found.

+

Hufflepuff won spectacularly; Marcus left halfway through.

He should have been made to sit through the whole mess of it. He owed Wood that much. But he couldn’t make himself. “ _Coward,”_ his brain supplied. The voice sounded an awful lot like his father.

He lingered outside the stadium, yellow and red bodies streaming out around him. He kept telling himself he’d leave, but he was still there when the students were gone and the players were filing out of the locker room. Marcus was standing far enough away that they didn’t notice, and if they did, they didn’t acknowledge him. Sullen faces turned down and away. Even some of the Hufflepuffs looked morose, Diggory worst of all, and he just bloody won. It must be torturous to live with that much empathy. Sometimes Marcus was glad his childhood never allowed room for it.

Oliver wasn’t among them. The rain clouds finally parted and the sun had lowered in the sky, leaving everything awash in grey. There was a chill in the air that gripped Marcus’ spine and he still couldn’t convince himself to go inside the castle. Instead, he steeled his nerves. This had to be one of the worst ideas he’d ever had, which was saying a lot. Pushing into the Gryffindor locker room, he was already halfway to convincing himself it was empty, that he must have just missed Oliver in the rush to get Potter off the field.

He wasn’t that lucky, of course. As he hovered in the entranceway, the pit of Marcus’ stomach took a nosedive.

Oliver sat on the edge of the bench, curled over with track pants pulled on and his shirt hanging loose in the grip of his hands. Wet hair curled in the soft dip behind his ear; it looked almost black.

Water droplets slipped down the bridge of his nose as Marcus’ eyes raked over his profile, and it was impossible to tell if they were water droplets at all.

Head still bowed, voice thin, Oliver broke the quiet. “Just go away, Flint.” There was a telling catch to his words and Marcus _knew_.

Oliver was still his competition. It was impossible to forget. They were rivals, and though Marcus was accustomed to winning by any means necessary—and wouldn’t apologize for it—this still didn’t sit well with him. Nothing involving his father ever did. He didn’t move to leave; there was no way he could now with Oliver curled into himself like a wounded animal. Rooted to the spot, he watched the stretch of pale muscle and the shift of ribs as Oliver pulled on his t-shirt, hiding with thin cotton the blotchy purple bruise that marred the skin along his side.

The air was heavy, thick with humidity from the showers, and a feeling Marcus didn’t want to name: a little like loss, a bit like desperation. It was the invisible hand constricting his throat as he worked to speak.

“M’sorry,” he croaked, barely getting the words out, and they were hardly even words at all, warped and smothered by the thickness of his tongue. He could tell by the way Oliver stiffened he’d heard them anyhow.

Oliver’s head raised from his hands to slowly turn, looking at Marcus properly for the first time in days, the full force of it like a blow through the centre of his chest.

“What?” Oliver looked baffled, hair sticking out at odd ends. Marcus’ hands clenched reflexively in his pockets. Whatever he was going to say was gone, and he scrambled for the threads of what he could explain.

“This isn’t--” He stopped, took a slow breath through his nose, and started again. “The match. Malfoy--I didn’t, I didn’t have a choice.” He gritted the final word out from his teeth like a curse.

“You expect me to believe that?” Oliver’s nose scrunched into that incredulous little wrinkle that made Marcus burn.

“No, but it’s the truth.” He was showing his cards, and it left him shivery, pressure slowly constricting around his lungs with every word.

Oliver unfolded himself from the bench, standing to consider Marcus properly. His head was tilted at that angle that let Marcus know he was being deconstructed into tiny blocks in Oliver’s head and reorganized into something new.

If he reached out now, he could probably touch him.

“Tell me why.” Oliver’s face was imploring. He took half a step forward, and just like that—all of a sudden—Marcus was the one cornered. It was so _Oliver_ to turn the tables on the edge of a coin, leaving Marcus exposed and defensive. Oliver was inching towards him now, slowly, as if Marcus was a frightened animal capable of lashing out. He would resent the insinuation if he wasn’t currently frozen in place.

Oliver was close enough that Marcus could see every devastating pore and freckle. His pupils were blown, still coming off the adrenalin of the game, water clinging to his bangs where they curled into his lashes.

Marcus swallowed hard. “It’s complicated.”

Oliver crowded into him further, sharing air, and it was a whole other kind of magic unknown to man and wizard alike where Oliver opened his mouth and Marcus was willing to tell him everything, anything he wanted, like clay ready to be molded into any shape or curve. Maybe he was just weak in the face of having someone show even minor interest in his life. But underneath every layer of denial and restraint, he knew it was Oliver, it had always been Oliver, and it probably always would be. No matter how impossible that seemed.

“Tell me anyway.” Oliver asked. There was a hand on his shoulder, steady and strong. The pressure of each fingertip anchored him to the spot. Marcus just wanted to break, give up and fold into him. He kept his back straight and jaw tight.

“I can’t.”

Oliver made like he was going to protest. “You keep saying that, but—”

“You don’t understand,” Marcus said, and he was disgusted at the pleading edge to his voice. He tried to mask it with anger, but it was a frail attempt. “It’s my family, _I can’t._ ”

Oliver just kept watching him, eyes intense and searching. The hand on Marcus' shoulder was rubbing smooth, dizzying patterns into his skin. Oliver was chewing at his lip again, mind moving a mile a minute, and Marcus knew Oliver was putting the dots together.

“Your dad, he’s—” Oliver stopped, hands clenching reflexively against the meat of Marcus’ shoulder, his eyes imploring and sad.

 _“Say it,”_ Marcus whispered. So he wouldn’t have to, he thought desperately. Every one of his muscles was coiled and wanting to spring. Oliver’s hand slid up to cup his neck, callused fingers dancing over where his pulse was hammering out of control through the thinness of his skin. It was supposed to be comforting, but only made Marcus’ heart stutter out of control.

 _“Death Eater,”_ Oliver whispered back.

The words were a low jolt, flooding the air, thick and weighty. His stomach swooped with the violence of gravity and Marcus was suddenly, terrifyingly, afraid of being crushed.

He couldn’t breathe, helplessly sucking in sharp, greedy breaths to fill his lungs. Oliver’s hand traveled, his fingers threading into the wet hair at Marcus’ nape, gripping him there, keeping him close, keeping him grounded.

“Marcus.” Oliver said his name like it was a secret too and Marcus had to make sure he knew, that he understood.

“I’m not like him, I’m nothing like him,” Marcus said desperately, and Oliver’s eyes were wide and wild, but he didn’t look away. He saw Marcus, he looked right at him and he didn’t flinch.

“I know—hey, I know.” Oliver’s head dipped, trying to keep eye contact, pupils racing over Marcus' face, taking him in.

His tone was soothing and Marcus’ breath was coming in heavy, stuttering heaves as his heart rabbited in his chest. Oliver hadn’t taken his hand off him, hadn’t recoiled in disgust. The pads of dexterous fingers pressed, massaging slowly up the back of his neck and over the base of his skull. The touch was so unexpectedly nice— _perfect_ —that he let a small, wounded sound escape him.

And then Oliver was on him, closing what little distance there was left, pressing up into him and back against the lockers. The curve of his mouth fit perfectly over Marcus’, firm and unyielding. Oliver kissed him with a fervour and a desperation that had his mind blanking and the lockers rattling in protest.

A slow, consuming warmth and the smell of clean skin encompassed him, heady and dizzying. Oliver’s mouth was a warm, slick pressure over his, demanding, exploring the texture of him. He flattened his palm over the dip of Oliver’s lower back. The cotton was damp where it clung to wet, heated skin, keeping him as near as he could.

He’d never experienced anything like this before. Heat was blazing through Marcus’ core, searing him open. It was overwhelming. There was the soft slide of a tongue against the seam of his lips. His mouth dropped open and a near-silent sob escaped him only to be caught by Oliver’s parted lips. It was wet and insistent, a little messy and so fucking perfect in the way they fit together. Marcus tilted his head, inviting Oliver deeper, and he absently thought about all those times they fought they were really meant to be doing this.

Marcus dragged his fingers roughly up the corded muscle of Oliver’s back, greedy for the firm planes of skin beneath, flexing and unyielding. Marcus had never been good with delicate things, hated them. Against him Oliver was durable and vibrant, licking into his mouth with hunger and biting down lightly on his cupid's bow.

It was too desperate to be gentle, but the way Oliver cradled his face in his hands made Marcus’ heart clench and stutter. He pushed his fingertips up under the hem of Oliver’s shirt, feather-light over the purpling mark on his ribs, drawing Oliver’s keen into his mouth.

His hips bucked at the sensation and the hot press of Oliver’s cock was unmistakable through the thin material of his track pants. Marcus gave a slow, exploratory grind, rubbing his erection along Oliver’s and up against the flat resistance of his stomach. Blood rushed in his ears and his gut tightened It was too good and still not enough. He couldn’t believe he had Oliver like this, making breathy encouraging noises against his mouth, heat pooling where their bodies touched to create friction.

Marcus was trembling and it shouldn’t be that overwhelming; there was barely any skin exposed at all. Oliver’s long fingers stroked into his collar, over the knob of his spine, and Oliver left a line of searing hot kisses along his neck. Marcus’ forehead fell to Oliver’s shoulder, burying his face in the hollow of his throat where it was dark and safe. He could smell clean laundry and leather and Quidditch. Oliver was gripping at his skin like he wanted to crawl inside him and Marcus would let him. He would let Oliver have anything he fucking wanted.

He felt frantic with it, a frenzied arousal that had Oliver grabbing at him, plastered close and trying to touch everywhere at once. Marcus swivelled his hips, seeking out that friction that made his eyes squeeze shut. His breath hitched. He was groaning into Oliver’s neck and melting against his chest, his hips giving desperate little hitches against the rhythm Oliver was building.

Marcus dragged his hands down over Oliver’s ass, the hard muscle and smooth fabric. A knee was pushed to wedge between his legs, a nudging pressure under the tightness of his balls, encouraging him so that Marcus was riding the strong line of Oliver's thigh. Rolling his hips, he tried to tuck his face deeper into the nook of Oliver’s shoulder, breathing harshly as the liquid heat of his stomach coiled tight. Oliver mouthed wetly at his jaw, his ear, anywhere his mouth could reach, murmuring little encouragements as Marcus heaved against him, thrilled and shivery.

He felt that tight, telling tug low in his abdomen and started to pull away—he was going to come just from this, he thought frantically. He couldn’t; then Oliver would know for sure he’d never done this before. But Oliver’s grip was like steel, the pads of his fingers digging into the grooves of his hips when they jerked, breathing hot against his cheek. Marcus squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel the burning flush travel up his throat to his face. Heat clenched in his abdomen. He was going to come in his pants, right here in the locker room against the insistent rocking pressure along the sensitive underside of his cock. The hands on his hips guided him in a frenzied rhythm, waves of steady sensation cascading over him. The friction was almost too much. He stiffened, muffling his moan in the damp hair behind Oliver’s ear.

“Yeah, com'on, just like that.” Oliver’s voice was low, coaxing an orgasm out of Marcus with his lips and his hands. Marcus should have known he would be mouthy. The pleasure was so good it was almost painful and then the crest broke and he was coming in messy spurts. The feeling was a never-ending rush; he trembled, hips twisting as the wet warmth coated the front of his boxers.

Oliver’s grip tightened impossibly. “Oh, fuck— _Marcus,”_ and the hot press of his cock was grinding in tight circles against the joint of Marcus’ hip. It was a rush of feeling, greedy fingers, the solid warmth of Oliver’s body, and his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He clutched at Oliver’s back, too rough, and Oliver stilled and came against him, the moans reverberating through his chest.

Marcus gripped him by the back of the neck, pulling Oliver back in so he could kiss him searingly and swallow his groans with an eager mouth. Oliver panted and sagged into the circle of Marcus’ arms, tucking his face back into the crook of Marcus’ shoulder.

“God,” Oliver breathed into his neck, his voice shaky and raw.

The rush subsided, fog clearing, and Marcus was suddenly, acutely aware of the sticky mess in his underwear and the cooling sweat between his shoulder blades. A shiver zipped down his spine, skin buzzing. They were braced against each other, bodies supporting one another as they tried to catch their breath, suspended in a long moment of silence, neither wanting to upset the stillness. It was inevitable, though; time and distance.

“I really wanted to win,” Oliver whispered like it was just another secret pressed between them.

“Everyone does,” Marcus whispered back. But still, he knew somehow Oliver wanted it more, pushed harder, always dedicated and unwavering in his pursuit.

It was one of the things Marcus loved about him.

Cold rushed through his veins like he’d been doused in ice water and he pushed Oliver away, skin peeling in protest at the separation. Oliver stumbled a bit by the sudden force of it, blinking at Marcus red-cheeked, unguarded, and _dangerous_. Another sharp spike of heat twisted in his gut.

_He did that._

Marcus couldn’t bear to look at him.

The sky was grey, Marcus was drowning, and he was in love with Oliver fucking Wood.

As soon as he was out the locker room door he ran.

+

Marcus just wanted one moment in his life to go his way.

He was at breakfast, trying to detach Montague’s arm from where it was turning Goyle’s head purple over the last waffle of all things, while Malfoy and Terrance laughed uncontrollably. Marcus would be all too happy to watch them bash it out themselves hell, any other day he’d pay to see it. But he knew Montague was likely to do real damage. In fact, he probably intended to, and Crabbe was already benched from a bad batch of puking pasties that could no doubt be traced back to the Weasley twins.

His team was a fucking mess, and Pucey was being no help whatsoever. He’d been ignoring Marcus ever since last night when Marcus had grown tired of Adrian’s needling over the hickeys on his neck and put him in a headlock. An awful lot like the one Montague was sinking in now. Marcus' form was better, though; he’d have to give him a thorough schooling later.

Ever since the Hufflepuff game, every Gryffindor in the school was giving them the stink eye and the Slytherin-Gryffindor related violence had increased tenfold. At least Marcus was not dumb enough to eat anything unsuspecting without checking it for jinxes—unlike his teammates.

He didn’t need to eat anything jinxed to be in a shitty mood. The weight of Oliver’s gaze from across the hall had him distracted and agitated. He still had a crick in his back from when Wood pinned him against the lockers and if not for that one ache the whole thing would feel like a dream. He wished it were that simple. _The things he said, he was so fucked._

 _“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”_ his treacherous brain supplied.

With a violent tug, Montague’s grip gave from around Goyle’s thick neck only to elbow a goblet of pumpkin juice, sending it spilling onto Marcus and drenching his uniform. He just bloody showered. Goyle had the decency to pale, while Montague snorted derisively.

Pinning them both with a glare that properly encapsulated the bloodlust bubbling in his chest, Marcus bit out, “Congratulations, you two just earned the team an extra hour of practice, _each,_ ” and stalked out of the hall to a chorus of groans and expletives.

Marcus resolutely ignored the sound of hurrying footsteps following him as he stormed down the corridor to the dungeons. He had just enough time to change his uniform before his class started and he couldn’t be late, _again_ —

“Flint!”

 _Bloody hell._ Head down, he quickened his pace, but it was hopeless; Oliver was a fast son of a bitch.

_“Marcus—”_

Fingers snagged in his sweater and Marcus turned, grabbing Oliver by the front of his robes and bodily dragging him into an alcove.

“Do you have no self-preservation whatsoever?” Marcus growled, and Wood’s eyes snapped immediately down to his mouth. Marcus was starting to suspect that Oliver might get off on physical confrontation. _“Or maybe it’s just you,”_ his mind supplied helpfully. Because he couldn’t remember Oliver looking at Bole like that the one time he lunged at him for hitting a bludger straight at Charlie’s head.

That was an even more terrifying thought. “Stop following me,” Marcus snapped, drawing Oliver’s attention back up and away from his mouth.

“Why?” Oliver asked, and he had that determined set to his face which always spelled trouble.

“You know why,” Marcus hissed out between his teeth, lowering his voice. For someone so smart, Oliver could be unbelievably thick.

Oliver looked affronted on a personal level. “That’s your father, Marcus, not you,” he said, leaning into his space, insistent, and Marcus tightened his grip, keeping him firmly away.

“But maybe it will be.”

It wouldn’t, not if he could help it, but Oliver was as presumptuous as Marcus was defiant.

“It won’t, _I know you,_ ” Oliver insisted, his mouth set into a hard line.

“You can’t know that,” Marcus said, and he had to work to get his voice not to tremble. It was a real fear because for all he was set on open air and the Montrose crest stitched into his robes, the truth was things could go very differently. There were already too many people he had to worry about, and adding another one to the list seemed like insanity.

“Fuck you I can’t.” Oliver’s mouth was a thin white line. He was looking less angry by the second and just sad, eyes wide and honest. Marcus hated pity.

“Stop it,” he bit out.

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me.”

“I’m not allowed to look at you now?” Oliver laughed, but it was stunted. Neither of them found it very funny.

“Why would you want to,” Marcus growled. He couldn't help it. Oliver looked at him like he mattered, and Marcus for the life of him couldn’t understand why.

Oliver leaned slowly into him, too slowly for Marcus to do anything about it, his hands coming up to bracket Marcus’ face, thumbs dragging into the grooves under his eyes and pressing into his cheeks.

“Because I like you, dumbass,” he whispered, slotting their mouths together before Marcus could even consider moving away. It was in no way chaste, but slow and deep and so very deliberate that a shudder ran through him, melting away the anger and the frustration. It promised things, things Marcus had never allowed himself to believe in, and it had the glass thing in his chest threatening to shatter.

“Oliver,” he pleaded, and Oliver hummed against his skin, warm and dry. “Stop.” Marcus would pry his hands away but he was too afraid to touch him. Sometimes Marcus thought his hands weren’t made for nice things.

Pushing Oliver away or pulling him closer: he couldn’t settle himself with either choice. So, he stood and waited until Oliver’s lips left his, but kept their foreheads tucked together. A compromise. Oliver took a deep breath in, and Marcus could make out the faint rattle of it in his chest this close, his nose pressed into the skin of Oliver’s cheek. He could feel the delicate brush of eyelashes against his skin, almost like a kiss. He had never imagined someone smelling him would make his stomach tie in knots, and his restraint wavered on a fine knife’s edge as he lingered for a moment before finally pulling away.

Oliver’s face was drawn but it wasn’t fooling either of them. Marcus couldn’t even bother anymore; he’d failed at hiding this from Oliver at every turn, and what was the point of trying now?

“If that’s what you want.” Oliver hesitated for a moment, hopeful to the end, but when Marcus said nothing, his hands smoothed over his shoulders, casting a wand-less scourgify before stepping away. leaving Marcus in the wake of his magic, lapping against his nerves like waves.

Getting what he wanted had never felt worse.

+

Oliver didn’t look at him for the rest of the day. Their detention loomed on the horizon like a bad omen. If Marcus had thought he felt empty before, it paled in comparison to what he felt now. What a fantastically horrible way to discover you have a capacity for human emotion. Well, emotion beyond anger and resentment.

And disappointment. Marcus knew that one, too.

He was sulking, and to Marcus’ greatest distress, Adrian took notice. He shoved an apple at Marcus on the way to Potions. “Saw you didn’t eat,” he said, and casually tripped an unsuspecting Ravenclaw in the hallway, sending her books flying.

And when they passed Malfoy in the stairwell to the dungeons, Pucey flicked his wrist under the cover of his sleeve, a spare bit of parchment with I <3 Potter attached to the back of Malfoy’s robes. Marcus hoped it was a permanent sticking charm.

Outside of Potions, Pucey knocked his shoulder into Oliver hard enough to make him stumble back against Percy Weasley as they entered class. It was mildly surprising behaviour, even to Marcus who knew him well. Adrian was usually the passive member on the team, not one to get physical unless instigated, and he may have been a daily pain in Marcus’ ass, but you could never say Adrian Pucey wasn’t loyal.

Adrian’s hollow face glared daggers at the back of Oliver’s head like he was trying to set his hair on fire. Glasses Weasley sat beside him, sending increasingly concerned glances over his shoulder at the pair of them.

Marcus slouched in his seat and sneered, satisfied when Percy went pale under his freckles, snapping his head around and burying it further into his textbook. Adrian’s eyes were sharp, infuriatingly observant; they possessed the same knowing glint as Oliver’s and Marcus hoped to god he never ever had the urge to snog Pucey. He’d had enough disaster in his life. He’d probably get clocked for it anyways.

Marcus admittedly felt a little better as they watched Malfoy flail around at lunch, complaining loudly and shooting empty threats at Crabbe and Goyle who helplessly tried to detach the parchment from his back. When they tried outwitting the charm by scribbling over the message, the ink morphed into one giant blob in the shape of a heart and started spitting ink missiles at an unsuspecting Goyle while Crabbe screamed and dove under the table. With its assailants conquered, the remaining ink spread to make out three bold words: _“Suck My Ass.”_ Adrian was nothing if not an artist.

In Transfiguration, things got racked up a notch. Percy wisely gave them a wide berth, but Oliver still seemed woefully unaware of the silent war waging around him. By the twitching muscle in Adrian’s jaw, Oliver’s obliviousness was pissing him off more and more by the second.

Passing by Oliver’s desk on the way to grab his rat from its cage, Adrian sent a stinging jinx in the direction of Oliver’s cat, making it jump a foot in the air and hiss bloody murder. That had its intended effect, sending Oliver reeling back almost out of his chair. Blinking at it with an unease Marcus wished he had allowed the Manticore, Oliver snapped his head around to glare at Adrian, who looked altogether too pleased with himself.

“What’s the deal, Adrian?” Wood hissed. He looked annoyed and confused. Adrian was one of the few Slytherins Oliver normally tolerated.

“Don’t know what you mean.” Adrian shrugged and turned back to his desk, his patented look of lofty disinterest clear across his face. Unfortunately, the confrontation hadn’t gone unnoticed by McGonagall, and the last thing Marcus needed right now was another detention.

She continued with her lecture, keeping a wary eye on the pair of them, but Marcus wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying. He leaned into Adrian’s space and whispered harshly: _“Just leave it.”_

The look he got was incredulous. _“He’s flat out ignoring you,”_ Adrian hissed back, nose crinkling. “I never expected Wood to be such a stuck-up prat.”

“For fuck's sake Adrian, _I asked him to,”_ Marcus snapped, praying that Adrian would finally—mercifully—leave it the hell alone.

He should have known better by now. Adrian turned bodily towards him in his seat, pinning Marcus with that scrutinizing stare. The jut of his chin said he was angry, and Marcus could only brace himself for the earful he was about to get.

 _“Why the hell would you do that Marcus, you said you liked him?”_ Adrian’s whisper was harsh and grating against Marcus’ already fraying nerves. He was so ready for this day to be over.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Marcus growled out, voice rising.

Oliver’s head finally turned towards him. Unfortunately so did the rest of the class’s, as well as McGonagall’s. Marcus sunk further into his seat.

“Mr. Flint, do you mind if I continue? I would hate to interrupt Mr. Pucey and yourself while you’re having a domestic but I think you could benefit from these notes, don’t you?” Around them, the class burst into peals of laughter. Ears burning, Marcus slouched down into his desk and wished he wasn’t so shit at charms; then he could just disappear. Maybe Adrian would pity him enough to transfigure him into a teacup; they lived a life free from humiliation, overwhelming anxiety, and expectation.

This was exactly why Marcus didn’t have many friends.

Everyone turned back around, the moment forgotten, except of course for Oliver who was still turned in his chair, eyes big and assessing. Marcus swallowed, wrangled what little fight he had left in him to glare, and ducked his head back into his work. The words were blurry on the page and around him the sounds of the class were softened and distant as if filtered through water.

As soon as class was over he bolted from the room, ignoring Adrian’s calls in favour of hiding in the library, this time from Adrian and his unwanted charity as much as from Oliver. Marcus just wanted to get this day over as fast as humanly possible. He distracted himself by flipping through Quidditch magazines, focusing on jotting down plays to try and resolutely not dwell on the look of surprise on Oliver’s face burned into the back of his eyelids. It worked for the most part, till the shadows grew long, the sky dark, and he could no longer put off the inevitable.

Oliver was already there with Filch when Marcus arrived. Filch was grousing some bullshit under his breath about being late and shackles, which Marcus mostly ignored considering he could probably tie Filch in a knot if he felt like it. The rest of his attention was dedicated to pretending not to watch Oliver out of the corner of his eye. He looked about as tired as Marcus felt, which was concerning because Marcus hadn’t slept properly in weeks.

Filch led them to the greenhouse, muttering something about _“Feedin’ tha Ten-ta-cula’s”_ and “ _A good whippin’”_ before slamming the door behind them and locking it deftly. Marcus’ heart sank with the heavy click of the bolt. He turned himself bodily away, ignoring Oliver in favour of getting set up to work on his Tentacula plant.

Maybe if he did it well enough he could goad Sprout into giving him extra credit. He’d always been good with the practical stuff, working with his hands, and she liked him more than the rest of his Professors combined.

He really was trying his best to focus, but Oliver wasn’t helping, dawdling and wholly uninterested in the task assigned. How nice it must be to not have to worry about your marks. There was an insistent itching at the back of his neck as Marcus tried to coax a Chizpurfule out from under the rock in its tank. Marcus felt oddly sympathetic towards it: not even one brain cell and it had enough sense to know it was about to get eaten alive. Poor sorry bastard.

He could sense Oliver hovering around him like a fucking Billywig, just watching with those wet brown eyes. The greenhouse was humid and Marcus felt the heat coming off Oliver like a wall as he watched what Marcus was doing over his shoulder. His breath ghosted over the back of Marcus’ neck, making him shiver, and the Chizpurfule slipped from between his tweezers, fleeing back under the safety of its rock.

“Would you fuck off!” Marcus snapped, but unfortunately, breaking the silence had the opposite effect than intended and Oliver took it as his cue to speak, crowding Marcus further into his stool.

“Are you cold?” he asked, his eyes trained on the side of Marcus’ face. That same itching sensation bloomed on the back of his neck again, and maybe Oliver hadn’t been watching the Chizpurfule at all.

Marcus tried to ignore him, but as he was learning, it was an impossible task. Oliver smelled like whatever stupid sports soap he used, spicy and heady, flooding Marcus with memories of a hard body rocking up against him and soft moans. He was close enough to feel Oliver’s breath, warm where the air was cold against the skin of his neck, and Marcus suppressed another shudder. _“No.”_

“There’re goosebumps on the back of your neck,” Oliver said, matter of fact, as if he was commenting on the weather, not slowly driving Marcus insane.

He slapped a hand over his nape, turning to glare up at Oliver from his stool. “Don’t look at my neck.”

Oliver gave him an indulgent eye roll, his words coming out in an exasperated rush. “What _am I_ allowed to look at?”

“Figure it out on your own,” Marcus snapped. He was done with this conversation and started to turn his attention back to his task, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

Oliver’s voice was a little bit further away when he whispered: “I wish you’d just talk to me.”

Marcus breathed deep in and out through his chest. “Nothing, it means nothing.”

“Clearly,” Oliver said, and the sarcasm was palpable, if not a little bitter.

“Maybe it’s none of your fucking business,” Marcus spat.

“Marcus—” Oliver was looking at him with big eyes and a smudge of dirt on his nose and Marcus still hated the way he said his name. Like it meant something, like he _mattered—_

He stomped the wave of emotion back down. “Let’s just get this over with, Wood,” Marcus sighed. “I don’t have time to explain shit to pretty boys who don’t know when to give up.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Oliver asked, and his lips quirked, eyes too bright, lips parted.

Marcus looked him dead in the eye. “I don’t think about you at all."

The tendon in Oliver's jaw twitched. “You’re lying, and I’m not giving up that easy.”

“Wish you would,” Marcus whispered. It was quiet and Oliver’s face smoothed out, losing anything close to humour. The crease between his brows deepened and Marcus wanted to smooth it out with his thumb.

Oliver’s voice had that ragged edge to it when he asked: “Is it really so bad, this?”

Nothing about Oliver could ever be bad; that was the problem. He was so close and Marcus could feel the waves of magic rolling off him and Marcus had never been more scared of anything in his life.

“Listen, if you really don’t like me, I’d understand. But don’t just leave me hanging, eh?” Oliver said gently and squeezed Marcus’ wrist.

And maybe Marcus wasn’t as much of a coward as he thought he was, as his father told him he was, because he leaned in and sealed their mouths together anyways.

Oliver's breath caught against his for a second before he swayed closer, his lips a warm, steady pressure. Once again, Marcus was overcome with the feeling of familiarity flooding the pit of his stomach, Oliver’s touch a welcome comfort.

He pulled away from that warmth for one more second. “M’not worth it,” he mumbled against Oliver’s mouth. It was the last warning Oliver would get, because Marcus had never felt more at home than here, in this dirty bloody classroom with this boy who thought more about Quidditch than breathing and maybe he wasn’t okay with that, but he wanted to be. Wanted it more than anything else except maybe Quidditch, and that was terrifying.

There was the press of chapped lips, firm and reassuring against his, and all the remaining tension in his body uncoiled like hot metal. “Let me decide that for myself, aye?” Oliver was fitting himself deeper between Marcus’ legs, his legs that spread for him all too easily.

And what could he say to that? So, he kissed Oliver again, his fingers curling into the collar of his shirt and tugging him down. It was messy and unpracticed. Marcus had snogged girls in Hogsmeade and at dances but it never seemed to matter because he never cared. Oliver was biting into him rough and possessive, like he wanted to make sure Marcus knew this time he wasn’t letting him go and it wasn’t the same, wasn’t like anything he’d ever felt before. He didn’t have to be soft like he felt he needed to be with a girl or in control like he did the rest of the time. Marcus gripped Oliver’s hips in the same place he had the last time, his body flooding with heat at the memory. Oliver was solid between his legs and warm, and he could pull Marcus into him with ease, suck at his bottom lip, and revel in the soft slide of their tongues together. Oliver moaned wetly, hips bucking, and it was all it took for Marcus to feel him brush against the inside of his thigh. He had been stupid to think one time could ever be enough.

Marcus stood, pushing Oliver back against the workbench. It must have been digging uncomfortably into Oliver’s spine, but he didn’t seem to mind, arching against Marcus, the hot length of his cock rutting against Marcus' belly. A hand pressed to Marcus' lower back, keeping them tight together as they grinded. He could remember the noises Oliver made when he came against the groove of Marcus’ hip in the locker room, want burning through him hot and thick.

Wedging a hand between them, Marcus pushed Oliver away again, just long enough to get some space between them. It was difficult, because Oliver was gripping him like he was afraid Marcus might stop, and froze when Marcus clumsily got to his knees. He could already feel the heat in his face; it must be so obvious that he’d never done this before, that he _wanted it_ so bad. But he wanted Oliver’s hands on him as much as he wanted his cock in his mouth, so he reached up blindly till Oliver caught his hand and brought it down to the back of his neck, where it was the last time.

When he’d thought about this on his own, he’d always imagined the hands on him would be rough and demanding, but this wasn’t anything like that. Oliver was pushing his hair away from his face like he wanted to _see him_ and Marcus’ hands came up to work at his belt first, then his zipper. It was giddy excitement that made his hands shake as much as it was nerves as he peeled Oliver’s zipper down, then his boxers. He could see flushed, warm flesh as he exposed Oliver’s stomach, flat and toned. A light trail of hair, a splattering of moles and freckles, Oliver’s cock flushed red and fucking gorgeous against the paleness of his skin. Marcus wanted to get his mouth on it and he buried his face there, in Oliver’s stomach, breathing him in the way Oliver had earlier.

“Marcus.” There was a hand tugging at his hair and Marcus pulled back. Oliver was looking down at him and his face was wiped clean of everything except fond affection, making it difficult to breathe. Marcus gripped his boxers, sliding them down Oliver’s hips until he could pull his cock out, and Marcus ached looking at him. He admired the brown patch of soft hair running down from under Oliver’s belly button, and the hard length of him in his hand, pink and smooth. He ran his hand over the shaft experimentally, rolling the foreskin back to reveal the flushed head, dewy at the tip. It made his mouth water. He squeezed the base and felt Oliver twitch, and another bead of precome welled up at the slit. Oliver’s hands in his hair were still a reassuring presence, but his voice was pleading when he said Marcus’ name again, his fingers tightening as Marcus leaned in, taking the head into his mouth.

He almost moaned at the sensation. He couldn’t take much, his lips bumping up against his fist as he sucked. But Marcus could smell him, musky and rich, and he could taste him where the slick head of Oliver’s cock was rubbing against his tongue, leaking steadily. Above him, Oliver was making soft, cut-off noises in his throat like he was trying not to be too loud, and all of a sudden Marcus was reminded of where they were, that he was sucking dick in a classroom during detention, and it flooded him with warmth, the heat rising to his cheeks.

He stroked Oliver’s cock as he sucked, pulling back to ease his jaw for a moment before continuing. He could feel the twitch of Oliver’s muscles in his thighs where Marcus was pinning them and the tug of Oliver’s fingers in his hair as he forgot his manners. Oliver could choke him on his dick if he wanted to and at this point Marcus had resigned himself to the fact that he would probably enjoy it. There was a brush against his face as Oliver ran his thumb over Marcus’ nose where Oliver had broken it at least three times, just touching him as Marcus doubled down.

He let out the moan he’d trapped in his chest, pressing a palm to his crotch to try and relieve some of the pressure. He could hear the distant “Oh fuck” of Oliver above him and Marcus pulled back, laving small licks around the head and sucking lightly at the skin there. It was a little sloppy as his jaw got tired, sending a thrill up Marcus’ spine. Oliver’s hips bucked in his grasp at a particularly hard suck, Marcus' hand stroking the base and tongue working at the underside.

He had to pull his hand away from his dick when he felt that hot clench in his gut and Marcus was never going to be able to step foot in here again without a raging hard-on. Oliver’s other hand reached out blindly for him where he was gripping the table and Marcus caught it, threading their fingers together. There was a sliver of blue ink visible on the back of his hand, little loops against soft skin, and Marcus moaned around his cock.

Oliver’s fingers were like steel, gripping Marcus’ hand as his hips jerked, and there was the sudden spurt of warmth against his tongue and a long groan from above him. Marcus pulled away, getting some of Oliver’s spunk on his chin and on the floor between his knees.

Oliver’s bloody long limbs had sent some of the gardening equipment scattering. There was a crash and Marcus hoped it was nothing too important. He stood on shaky legs, stiff and aching all over like he’d just got through a gruelling practice, and Oliver was reaching for his face, wiping at his chin and pulling him down to kiss him. Marcus pecked him on the lips once, twice, kissing over his cheek.

“That was awesome,” Oliver breathed out, and Marcus had to bury his face in Oliver’s neck again. He sealed his mouth over Oliver’s pulse and it fluttered under his tongue as he worked a mark there. Oliver jerked at his belt strap, a pain in the ass to undo from the opposite direction, tugging at Marcus’ pants in frustration, wedging a hand in there. Marcus gasped, his nails scrabbling at Olivers back, and his hips jerked at the hand twisting around his length.

Tipping his hips forward, Marcus chased the sensation when Oliver pulled away to work at tugging his underwear lower down on his hips, exposing him the rest of the way. Marcus was so fucking hard already, his cock jutting out, thick, and smearing pre-come into his happy trail. So much for the extra credit, he thought. He was going to come so hard he wasn’t going to have any brains left afterwards.

He was already so wet. Oliver’s skin was rough and hot, gliding over him in jerky movements. The angle looked awkward on his wrist, but Oliver must have done this before because the movements seem familiar. Marcus tried not to think too hard about that, trailing sloppy kisses up Oliver’s neck and over his jaw, sucking his earlobe into his mouth. Oliver’s fist curled tighter around him, callused fingers trailing up the vein on the underside, warm puffs of breath against Marcus’ skin, and his mouth. God, Marcus hadn’t even thought about his mouth.

He had to pull away to kiss Oliver again and he felt stupidly emotional about getting jerked off in a classroom. It felt like the ground was shifting beneath them, because kissing Oliver could be nothing less than an earth-altering event.

Oliver pulled away from him to pant harshly. _“Fuck. Your mouth Marcus, fucking—”_ he said like he didn’t know where the words were coming from but he felt a possessive thrill at letting it all out. Marcus’ head dropped to Oliver’s shoulder and he groaned into his shirt. His hands braced on the table so his hips could fuck into the rough grip of Oliver’s palm and come in his hand with a shudder.

Oliver was kissing all over where he could reach, wet and insistent against the planes of skin now salty with sweat. _“Marcus.”_

“Yeah,” Marcus said dumbly, head thick like it was stuffed with cotton balls. Large hands smoothed through his hair, pushing it away from his face and snagging in the tangles they had created earlier. The sensation tugged at the knot of heat in his belly, and apprehension lodged his heart in his throat while he waited for Oliver to speak. To say that it was nothing, that he didn’t mean it, or that he didn’t really want him. Marcus braced for the laugh, the rejection, waited for it to come because he was good at hiding but there was no way his face wasn’t an open fucking book right now.

“Marcus,” Oliver repeated, and Marcus blinked, snapping out of it.

“Hey.” Oliver was smiling at him soft and warm. The mess in his head melted away and his heart stuttered along with the patterns Oliver’s thumb was smoothing into his cheek.

Marcus kissed him, slow and deep, and his breath hitched when teeth caught on his bottom lip. Long fingers stroked at his face and the back of his neck and he tried to suppress the hopeful shivers that just wouldn’t fuck off.

“You know what this means?” Oliver asked, and it was a stupid question: in this moment Marcus barely knew up from down.

“We should probably clean up before Filch gets back?” Marcus guessed, grimacing at the itchy feeling of his crusty skin.

Oliver huffed, giving his hair a light tug. “There’s no way I’m going to let you run this time.”

Marcus stared for a long moment. Oliver’s fingers continued their slow path through his hair before repeating the movement. Over and over—and maybe it was okay—maybe Marcus was getting really tired of running.

He rested his chin back down on Oliver’s shoulder, closing his eyes and focusing on the lulling feeling of fingers scratching across his scalp as Oliver waited patiently for him to collect his thoughts.

“Your friends aren’t going to like this,” was what he said in the end, because it was the truth and because Marcus didn’t give a shit but Oliver did. His friends were important to him, and Marcus had Adrian who was loyal, and sometimes Higgs when he wasn’t being a total prat. But Oliver’s group of friends—they weren’t just close, they were intense and familial in a way Marcus had never experienced and Marcus didn’t know how he was ever supposed to compete with that.

“Good thing it’s none of their business,” Oliver said, all too simply, so confident that he’d got the whole world figured out. Even if Marcus was still doubtful, the calm assurance eased some of the pressure in his chest.

He let Oliver step away from the table and searched for a rag they could wipe themselves down with, shoving it behind a planter when they were done. Hopefully never to be found.

They sat side by side, their shoulders pressed together as they watched the Tentaculas spit the husks out in comfortable silence. Oliver slid his hand over, easily prying Marcus' fingers open to twine them together against his thigh. It was warm, and his palm was definitely sweating, but Oliver didn’t seem to mind and Marcus wouldn’t even for a second think about pulling away, not now.

Filch looked only the normal amount of suspicious when he came to collect them. Oliver shot Marcus a secret, smug smile over his shoulder behind Filch’s back.

On the walk back to the castle he hung back a step, leaning into Marcus’ side. “You know, if you change your mind by tomorrow morning I’m just going to have to break your nose again,” Oliver added conversationally.

“You’re the one who has to look at me,” Marcus grumbled, but there was a warm feeling spreading throughout his chest.

“I like looking at you,” Oliver said, and he sounded put upon but fond. Marcus bumped their shoulders together, lingering there.

“Hurry up!” Filch snapped ahead of them, and Oliver sighed long-sufferingly, rolling his eyes before jogging ahead a few paces.

Marcus didn’t get it, but then again Oliver had always been fucking weird.

He’d follow him anyway.

+

“Looks like detention went well.”

“Stuff it, Pucey,” Marcus growled out around his spoon, shovelling Cheeri-Owls into his mouth while Terrance watched in mild disgust. There was a livid red spot at the base of his jaw, glaringly obvious and contained within a light ring of teeth marks. He didn’t even remember Oliver biting him that hard, but he hadn’t entertained the thought of removing them. Every time he touched his fingers to the tender spot he was reminded of Oliver arched against the workbench. No, they could stay, and Marcus could survive the ragging from his teammates.

There was a loud snap beside his ear, emanating from Adrian’s thin fingers.

“What?” Marcus snarled.

“I think lover-boy wants a morning kiss.” Terrance snickered, jerking his head across the hall.

Marcus couldn’t help but let his eyes flick over to where Oliver was sending him a look. A challenge.

Marcus sighed. It was too early in the morning for this. He was hoping Oliver would wait it out till at least lunch. But that was probably being far too optimistic.

“Go get’m tiger,” Adrian said, slapping him too hard on the back and making him cough up a Cheeri-Owl back into his bowl.

“Nice,” Adrian drawled as Marcus wiped the dribble of milk from his chin.

“If you don’t want to be running dryland drills into next week I’d shut my trap,” Marcus said, and stood, pushing the entire bench back with him, throwing everyone off balance. It was good to be the biggest.

As he walked across the great hall, trying his best to look casual, his fingers curled around the Muggle pen in his pocket. It had been burning a hole through there all morning. Marcus had found the pen when he’d dumped his bag out last night; it had fallen onto his desk with his crumbled worksheets and Herbology textbook.

A rush of exhilaration mixed with foreboding as he got closer to the Gryffindor table, creating a nervous excitement that sloshed around in his stomach. Marcus made sure to keep it off his face, chin up and shoulders back.

Oliver was the exception when it came to Gryffindors Marcus could tolerate, and he was still an exceptional pain in his ass most of the time, so the rest of them could eat dirt for all he cared.

Angelina Johnson caught his eye and elbowed George-- _hard_ \--making him miss his mouth with his cup. Marcus felt no pity for him. Soon, half the table was watching Marcus’ approach with varying levels of disbelief. Percy never looked up from his textbook.

“What honor brings you to our lowly parts, Flint?” Fred asked, looking amused while George was slightly less than.

He ignored both of them. Oliver was smiling up at him, the fucking nerd. Clearing his throat, Marcus’ voice was still rough when he shoved the pen at Oliver and he felt the back of his neck heat. Rough from sucking _dick._ “Found this in my bag.”

“Thanks, I was looking for that,” Oliver said, and their fingers brushed when Oliver reached for it, sending a tingle up Marcus' arm and down his spine. This was so fucking gay. He made a move to leave, no point in drawing out torture, when Oliver caught his sleeve.

“Hey, Quidditch pitch tonight?” he asked with a smile that said he knew what Marcus was thinking.

Marcus cast a sweeping glance over the table of Oliver’s teammates, who were all looking very deliberately interested in their assorted breakfast foods. Alicia Spinnet was making deep, meaningful eye contact with her jam and toast, while Katie Bell was vigorously nodding along to a _Prophet_ article that read: _“101 Creative Ways to Cure Gnome Bites.”_

Fingers snared in his belt loop, jerking him a bit, and Marcus shifted his attention back to Oliver, who smiled gently at him.

Marcus let out a gruff, “Sure.”

Oliver’s face split into a grin. “Looking forward to it.” The way he said it was almost as conspiratorial as it was suggestive. It was the promise of something new, and Marcus' heart skipped a beat.

Oliver’s fingers slipped from his belt loop, which for a second was almost tragic, before Oliver ruined the moment, slapping him hard once on the ass. “See you later!”

Marcus, who couldn’t un-glue his tongue from the roof of his mouth, just grunted in reply, turned and walked away on autopilot, neck burning.

He didn’t move fast enough to miss the badly concealed whispers from the Gryffindor table.

_“What did you do to Flint?”_

_“What didn’t he do to’im, am I right?”_

Marcus bowed his head and walked faster.

The day was torturously long. Oliver sent him increasingly suggestive looks and warm smiles. His only salvation was Percy, of all people, who had finally seemed to catch on and looked absolutely miserable about the new development in his friend’s love life.

Oliver was already waiting for him when Marcus arrived at the Quidditch pitch. It took him a moment to notice him, though: a barely visible black smudge in the Gryffindor stands.

Marcus mounted his broom and made his way to Oliver, landing smoothly on the bench beside him. He dropped his broom down beside Oliver’s and sat, bumping their shoulders together in greeting.

“Long time,” Oliver drawled, and Marcus wondered if his face hurt from all that smiling.

“So much for none of their fucking business, eh?” Marcus said, and Oliver groaned.

“Do you remember the last time anyone properly hid something from Fred and George? _Do you?_ ”

Marcus had to give him that one.

Oliver’s hand reached up to touch his own neck. “Especially when it looks like I got attacked by an amorous lamprey.”

Marcus’ eyes slide indulgently over the marks, a greedy possessive feeling churning in his stomach. “You could’a removed them.”

“Yeah, I could have,” Oliver said, and grinned. What a fucking menace. Marcus just had to kiss him, it had been too long.

“Next time I’ll have to leave them where no one can see,” he said, when Oliver looked well kissed and ruffled. He leaned back on his hands, admiring the view of the pitch and asked what he had been thinking: “What are we doing up here?” Not that it wasn’t a nice view and all but he was hoping to get some flying in.

Oliver picked at a loose string in his gloves. “Actually, I have something of yours, too,” he said with a sheepish duck of his head.

Marcus raised his brow in question, curious, as Oliver reached inside his jacket.

Marcus’ breath caught in surprise as Oliver pulled out his copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ and relief washed over him. He’d recognize that book anywhere.

“Sorry I didn’t give it back earlier,” Oliver said, looking guilty. “I was still mad at you and then I didn’t really know a good way to go about it. I kept it safe, though.”

“S’okay, made me spend more time studying,” Marcus joked, but it was thin. His fingers itched to open the cover and see if the most important thing was still there.

“The letter is still there,” Oliver confessed. “I looked at it but I didn’t read the whole thing once I realized what it was, I’m sorry.”

Marcus opened the front sleeve of the book, pulling out a folded piece of paper with the Montrose Magpies insignia stamped on the front, worn from being opened and closed every day since Marcus had received it. He handed it to Oliver, who opened it carefully, and Marcus felt a deep swell of affection there under his ribs.

They sat in silence as Oliver read it through. “How are your marks?”

“Better than expected,” Marcus said.

“Is this the first offer you got? You’ll get more for sure,” Oliver said.

Marcus wasn’t as convinced. He smiled but he knew he was lucky to get one offer, and it had nothing to do with his skills as a chaser. “I’m going to accept this one when I graduate. They’re the team I’ve always wanted to play for.”

“And your dad?” Oliver asked hesitantly.

“I’ll figure it out.”

Oliver reached over and wound their fingers together. Marcus examined their hands in quiet quiet contemplation. They made an odd couple.

He knew Oliver was just barely holding back a wave of questions, but Marcus didn’t have any good answers for him. He was dealing with issues as they arose.

“Are you going home for Christmas?” Oliver finally spat out, and it was a softball that Marcus appreciated.

He sighed. “You know I am.”

Oliver went quiet again as he leaned into Marcus' side. “Wish you wouldn’t,” he said, tracing the lines over Marcus’ knuckles. “Maybe you could come to my place?”

He wanted to, anything not to have to be in that house, but—“I don’t think so, I still got mom and my sister.”

“Right,” Oliver said, disappointed. “My family would really like you.”

Marcus had to snort at that. “Seriously?” He couldn’t imagine any parents being excited that by “ _bringing someone home for the holidays”_ their son meant his 6’4 lug of a boyfriend who had punched him a week ago and had Death Eater family ties…

Oliver squeezed his hand. “I like you.”

“Still don’t know why, really,” Marcus said.

“You don’t?” Oliver said, and kissed him, gripping him tight. The glass thing in his chest was less fragile than ever. It was dangerous: thrilling and vibrant. And when they took off into the sky, Marcus’ stomach swooped and he realized the feeling was hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have a half-finished sequel for this so maybe I'll finish that as well one day 😂


	2. Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drawings aren't necessarily a part of the au, I'm just adding them in here for fun :)

**Author's Note:**

> I do have a half-finished sequel for this so maybe I'll finish that as well one day 😂


End file.
